Henry's Journals
by Harmonics Rioter
Summary: Dreamer. Inventor. Father. Henry Withers was all these and more. Follow his story through his own journals, letters, recordings, newspapers and more. From the origin and early days of Fredbear's, to the success of Fazbear's, to the loss of everyone and everything he loved… including the man who gave him so much success and pain: William Afton. (CANCELLED)
1. A difficult beginning, Part 1

**A/N:** Hello everyone, thanks for checking out this story centered around Henry: the mysterious man who put an end to William Afton's legacy of terror in FNaF 6. This story will be different from anything I've written so far: it will be told by Henry's own diary entries and notes, newspaper articles not written by him, audio transcripts and more documents. We will see some of his daughter as well, and of course the ominous character of William Afton, who caused so much pain to so many people.

William's own story and the one of his family will be told through his own documents in another fanfic that will run parallel to this one: _The Afton Archives._

Fair warning: due to the nature of this story, the first chapters will be relatively 'slow' when it comes to plot and will focus mostly on our characters. However, rest assured that as problems arise, a lot of savory plot-points will be shown. Whether you've read my other works or not, I sincerely hope you enjoy this story. Honest reviews and constructive criticism is highly appreciated. And as always, happy reading!

* * *

 **Journal 1: A difficult beginning**

 **Part 1**

 _Newspaper clipping from The Hurricane Herald_

 _Obituaries_

 _August 8_ _th_ _, 1975_

In loving memory of Agnes Withers  
(1920-1975)

Mrs. Agnes Withers passed away in the early afternoon of the 7th of August due to cardiac arrest. The late widow of Sherman Withers, she was a Hurricane resident all her life. She was a dedicated nurse who enjoyed writing children's stories in her free time. Mrs. Withers was alone at home at the time of the incident, and was found unconscious by a friend who notified the local medical center. Unfortunately, Mrs. Withers passed away before she could arrive to the center by ambulance. Funeral services will be held on August 11th at 2:30 PM on the First Southern Baptist Church. Agnes is survived by her loving son, Henry Withers.

* * *

 _Henry Withers' personal journal_

August 8th

As our bus arrived at noon, I realized that Hurricane hadn't changed one bit. It was still this bizarre island of greens and greys in a desert of red and orange. I admit that I forgot just how beautiful my hometown could be this time of year. If only the reasons for my return were different, I might truly enjoy this unique landscape in its entire familiar strangeness. The drab, boring suburban streets and strip malls surrounded by monumental brick-colored cliffs against the blue sky of summer… when I look at them, I wonder if leaving was the right decision. But, more importantly, I wonder if I should've returned.

Not like I had much choice, in any case.

Thankfully, writing and sketching in JR's has been keeping me busy enough, otherwise I would be lost in nostalgia and grief. I probably should've left my two half-empty suitcases and backpacks at the house, but I won't enter that building until nightfall. Can I walk those empty and dark halls, where I first learned to crawl and walk and run? Can I sleep in my parents' empty bed, now that I'll never be able to lie down next to them? Can Lorena and I really make a home out of that house?

Lorena, please be okay.

My nerves try to take the best of me, but caressing the ring around my finger brings me some comfort. She'll be okay. She knows how to take care of herself, despite her condition. She'll get here in two or three days and call me to meet up somewhere. Yes, she'll be okay.

* * *

August 9th

10 AM - I ended up spending last night at the cheap motel on Main Street, still incapable of entering that house. Maybe having Lorena by my side will give me the strength to face the ghosts of my past, but until then, I'll be staying here. I've already called her to let her know that I'm not installed in the house yet, and to meet me here if I'm not at the bus station when she arrives. She seemed to understand, and wished me strength and good luck. Smiling, I returned the blessing before hanging up.

8 PM - I'm once again in JR's, the small pub that has been my refuge so many times; funny how all of life's problems seem more manageable after a good cold beer. Mr. Hong and I are all caught up now, after more hours of talking than I thought I could endure. Maybe I overestimated my solitary tendencies. He asked me all the regular questions: how I've been, was I happy with my degree, how's the married life treating me, etcetera. I informed him in the exquisite detail he demanded about the ups and downs of living in Boston, about finishing my degrees in mechanical engineering and creative design, about Lorena. As I kept telling him about my professional goals over the small counter of the pub, he asked a question I've heard over and over again.

"Henry, how are you going to find work here?"

I shrugged. "There's always someone looking for an engineer."

His dark eyes narrowed in disbelief and slight concern. "But you said you wanted to build robots. Nobody here ever asks for a robot. Look at this town!" He pointed at the window with a wrinkled finger, and we saw low houses, empty narrow streets and rock formations just beyond. "There's nothing for you here, you're too smart for this place."

Rubbing my temple, I tried to summarize my hopes and dreams in a way that didn't sound too naïve. "Then maybe I can make the place different." I said, "Maybe people will be amazed if I bring along something new, something they'd never seen before."

"There's a big risk." he warned.

"Almost as big as the potential." I countered.

He gave a little wobble of his head, and I assumed it was some way to acknowledge defeat; or, at the very least, that he won't change my mind.

I doubt he'd be willing to take me seriously if I tell him the kind of robots that I'm building. Even more, I'm not sure he's ever seen a true animatronic before. Hopefully that'll change in a few years. He's at the counter right now, cleaning some glass cups and arranging some bottles of foreign beer. It's closing time, I think he'll ask me to leave in a moment.

But wait, a last-minute customer just entered the pub. I know all of Mr. Hong's regular clients, but I've never seen this man before. He's tall and thin, with sharp features and eyes colored like a shallow sea. He's checking the aisles behind the counter where Mr. Hong is … was organizing the stock; he's now back at the counter to attend the client.

The man just ordered a bottle of Guinness and politely asked Mr. Hong about the day. Both chatted for about a minute, until they wished each other a good night. The client then turned around, walked back to the door and acknowledged my presence with a polite nod and half-smile before leaving the shop.

I think it's time for me to leave, but not before asking Mr. Hong more about this interesting man. I've never heard anyone in this town speak with a British accent.

10 PM – The springs of the motel's cheap mattress taunt my sides as I write this. Lorena should arrive tomorrow at 9 o'clock in the morning, hopefully giving us enough time to make ourselves as comfortable as possible in the house. The hours cannot pass fast enough.

Mr. Hong didn't seem to know much about the curious man. Here's what he told me when I asked him about the stranger, just before leaving the pub:

"He moved here a couple of months ago. And yes, he's definitely British."

"Is he a regular?" I asked, as Mr. Hong turned from the counter and went to his mop.

The owner of the pub nodded. "Comes here at least three times a week, sometimes more. Loves Guinness and Stella Artois. He always asks for stouts and pilsners at room temperature, never drinks anything in a can and treats himself with a tall glass from the tap when he has the time."

I grinned. "Sounds like a man of culture."

He smiled back. "Just like you. You should talk to him the next time you see each other."

Nodding in agreement, I thanked him and began to go to the door, before asking: "Is there any chance you might know his name?"

Mr. Hong replied by shaking his head. "Afraid not, Henry."

But I can't let myself get distracted by chasing little side quests, although escaping my grief and duty as a son is tempting. I must rest; tomorrow is another day.

* * *

August 10th

3 PM – My wife is lying next to me, sleeping peacefully on our new bed. Is it new, though? How many years has it stayed here, covered in that stained blanket, gathering dust and memories hung in the air? No, it is only new for our new life that begun today.

Lorena's bus arrived right on time. As soon as she saw me, she ran as fast as she could with travel-bags dangling in both hands, before releasing them and folding her slim and tender arms around me. We stayed there, frozen in each other's arms for around a minute, until she broke the embrace and looked up at me with those honey eyes. I let myself drown in my wife's sweet gaze.

That same gaze turned into mild annoyance when I hurriedly inspected her face and arms.

"Did you fall?" I asked in worry, checking her fingers. "Have you been feeling weak? You're pale. Have you…"

She interrupted me with a calm hush and a small smile. "I'm fine, Henry. I can take care of myself for three days."

Shaking my head in mild embarrassment, I replied "Sorry, I was worried. With your condition-"

"My condition doesn't define me, darling." With a mischievous smirk, she poked my nose before taking my hand in hers. "You really worry too much."

Maybe I do.

Although almost everything has been taken care of, we arranged some last-minute details for tomorrow's funeral before working on the house. We unpacked our bags, cleaned the rooms, had hamburgers and fries for lunch and rearranged what little furniture remained. After this little rest, we will work some more before calling it a day. Maybe then I'll finally be able to show her my overfilled sketchbook.

11 PM – I tried to get some shuteye after my last entry, but I soon found myself staring blankly at the dark ceiling with bleary eyes. Now, the same angst that has been growing and feasting on my nostalgia is denying me some much-needed sleep. Can I really throw dirt on my mother's dead body? This mental image makes me physically sick, like a hangman's noose tightening around my stomach, even with the strength that Lorena's company is giving me. I must get my mind away from these depressing thoughts.

I sketched some more this afternoon as my wife slept. Finally, after Lorena's keen feedback in the early evening, I think I'm fairly satisfied with the bear character I've been working on. It's simple but different, charming and kid-friendly without being too infantile for adults to endure. After much debate, I gave him a purple fedora and checkered tie. The golden fur will make him stand out.

I think I will call him Fredbear.


	2. A difficult beginning, Part 2

**A/N:** Welcome back guys, thanks for being here. And thanks for the support given to me on the first part. I hope you enjoy the rest of this story, that will begin to pick up pace during and after this chapter. Remember that your honest reviews and critique are always highly appreciated. And as always, happy reading!

* * *

 **Part 2**

 _Henry Withers' personal journal_

August 11th

7:30 PM – This has been one of the worse days of my life. Nevertheless, it was easier than I expected. The morning was a whirlwind of condolences and phone calls from relatives I didn't even know I had. Thanks to the simplicity of the funeral, it was done fairly quickly, aided in part by the small number of people who came to the service. The most difficult of it all was seeing my mother's body in that wooden box, so pale and cold and still. The irrational child in me still believed she might just stand up and take me in her arms, but all these naïve illusions shattered when the first ounces of dirt slipped from my shovel unto the closed casket. I thought to myself that I was burying a chunk of meat, nothing else. That the real life's essence of my mother had long since melted away and travelled somewhere else, hopefully somewhere better.

I wish I could truly believe all this. It's funny: I didn't cry then. I'm crying now.

The shadows around the house seem to grow darker, and the silence is becoming unbearable. I think I'll just sketch Fredbear over and over until I pass out.

* * *

August 12th

2 PM –I awoke this morning feeling more tired than I did when I went to bed last night. I got dressed and bid farewell to Lorena before leaving the house, promising that I'd grab some breakfast on my way to the bank. Now, I realize that I haven't kept the promise.

Who knew that getting credit for a small business would be this complicated? I went to four banks before coming to this one and received four no's as answers. This time, the man responsible for credits said that he'll send me a letter, letting me know if my credit got approved. I'll have to wait, but hopefully this time there will be a positive answer. All my life's plans might have to be rethought otherwise.

I've bought some basic groceries. Maybe I'll be able to eat a proper lunch with my wife instead of living off fast-food and coffee.

9 PM – It's been a while since I've made a new acquaintance, especially a man as undoubtedly brilliant as that singular Brit.

I wanted to be outside the house after lunch, but Lorena chose to stay. My feet, guided by memory, carried me to JR's with barely any conscious thought from me. I soon found myself sitting by a window, sipping at a cold bottle of Coors as the sun settled over the rocky, jagged horizon.

He then entered the shop with long and confident strides, his tall and lean figure magnified by the small size of the building, blue eyes locked keenly on Mr. Hong behind the counter.

"One pint of Guinness, good man." he said in a grave yet warm voice.

The owner obliged quickly, and the client soon had a sizable glass of foaming beer in his hand. JR's was particularly quiet this afternoon and I was using my sketchbook as cover while I spied at the newcomer, so it came as a surprise when the man decided to sit right in front of me. I put pencil to paper, pretending not to notice his presence as I sketched a part of Fredbear's mouth. It was silent for a minute or two, until he spoke:

"My man, drinking and drawing is a dangerous endeavor. I hope you know what you're doing."

I closed my sketchbook protectively, put on a polite grin and said "A single lager isn't drinking. A pint of stout, on the other hand…"

He smiled as I pointed at his glass, showing off slightly yellowed teeth. "I never thought I'd hear anyone in this town use those terms, except the owner of this fine establishment. In that case, I forgive you for drinking that sad excuse of a beer."

"It's refreshing." I said nonchalantly.

Staring to a side, he seemed to ponder this for a few seconds, before stretching out a thin and pale hand to me. "William Afton."

I then took his hand and gave it a short yet firm shake. "Henry Withers." After a few seconds of awkward silence, I asked "What are you doing in this town, Mr. Afton?"

"Living the American Dream." he said with an airy smile, before taking his first sip of beer. "I moved here in June with my wife and two boys. We found ourselves a nice suburban home and are settling down quite nicely."

I finished my beer, which had gone from cold to cool. "And working hard, I suppose."

His smile faltered. "We've been living on some money I inherited. My parents died right before we moved here..."

"I'm sorry for your loss." I interrupted.

He waved his hand casually. "Death is part of life. In the grand scheme of things, I must say that the timing was rather convenient." I was slightly surprised by his indifference, until he said, "Of course I miss them a lot." But that sounded almost like an afterthought.

"It's funny, I actually buried my mom yesterday." I murmured, "And I'm still getting over it."

"You have my condolences." he said, seemingly more moved by my loss than his. I thanked him, before he took the word again. "We used most of that inheritance to move here, although my wife currently works as a teacher in an elementary school. I'm unemployed for the moment. I suppose there isn't a lot of demand for an expert in robotics here."

I felt my jaw drop. Picking it up, I stuttered out "You have formal training in robotics?"

He nodded, and his blue eyes sparked with pride. "I studied electrical engineering and accounting in Oxford with a minor in computer science, then I did a masters in robotics."

"That's impressive." I replied, enthralled. "Well, I recently majored in mechanical engineering and creative design from MIT. I was _cum laude_ for design."

A large smile appeared on William's face, which soon turned into a hearty chuckle. Confused and slightly unsettled, I saw him squirm and laugh in his seat for long seconds, until he finally got himself under control and wheezed out, "That's… That's funny…"

"What's funny?"

William grinned smugly. "I was _magna cum laude_ for electrical engineering."

Awed, I saw him take a few generous sips of his beer before putting the glass down. He then looked keenly at me and my sketchbook. "In my experience, young adults who drink alone and spend a Tuesday afternoon doing art are either bums living off their parents money, or dreamers trying to change the world." Raising his glass, he smirked at me. "It seems to me that you are the latter."

"I'm not trying to change the world." was my reply, "I just want to carve a place in it for me and my wife."

Looking at me with a raised eyebrow, he attacked his Guinness once more, then said "Which means changing it somehow. Would you mind telling me how you're planning to do that?"

As comfortable as I felt talking to the former stranger, I still preferred to keep that information to myself. "Maybe in time." He nodded in agreement and took another sip of beer.

The rest of the conversation revolved around our arrival to Hurricane and our families, plus some anecdotes from our similar work and study. William has been living in the US for two years and moved to Hurricane after the birth of his second son, who is barely three months old. His other child, a seven year old boy named Michael, is doing well at school so far, despite what William described as an "unfortunate tendency to get carried away by his feelings." I was surprised to hear that he is only 32; his demeanor and achievements make it hard to believe that he's been on this world only six years more than me.

We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to see each other, at the same place and same time. I can hardly wait.

* * *

August 13th

1 PM – Damn those banks and damn myself.

The letter came back: my credit has been denied. I don't know what to do. I need that loan. I need to buy the materials to build the first prototypes, not to mention the building and staff. My God, what can I do? Can I find a side job somehow? But where! Every position in this small, damned town is filled.

I closed my eyes and rested for five minutes. Bless this paper, which allows me to scream and shout my anger away without making a single squeak. Lorena's downstairs. I'm going to make her some lunch before breaking down the news to her.

4 PM – She was sitting by my side on the awkwardly large table during lunch. I had tried my luck with some spaghetti Bolognese, but neither of us seemed particularly enthralled by my concoction. The crunchy, sticky strands of pasta were clumped together under the viscous sauce and rubbery meat (I had no idea tomato paste could be viscous. How I even managed to do that is beyond my comprehension).

"It's not bad." said Lorena, slowly chewing a single strand of pasta.

"You don't have to lie." I murmured as I poked the thing. "It's horrible."

"Okay, it is horrible. But look at the bright side." she said with a playful smile, caressing my hand. "You're actually improving!"

We both laughed, and I let myself get distracted by her cheer. For one moment, God forgive me, I was tempted to keep the bank's decision a secret. But as my soulmate she deserves my wholehearted honesty, nothing less.

"The bank said no." I said, a few minutes after sharing laughter.

Her hand froze immediately; the fork's metal impaling the spaghetti. For a couple of seconds, she was still like a statue, looking down through her plate. She then resumed eating like nothing had happened. "That's okay."

"Lorena, we can't live on our savings forever." I countered, bordering on anger.

Her cool demeanor immediately soothed my irritation. "We'll find a way." she said calmly, once again taking my rough hand into her warm, soft fingers. "We always do."

I truly wish I had her faith.

We finished eating in a comfortable silence. I washed the dishes, afraid to let her near anything sharp due to her illness, and started writing this entry. In an hour I'll be meeting William at JR's. I'm curious to see what that man has to tell.

9 PM – I don't know how to describe my feelings on what just happened with William, I don't even know what those feelings regarding our conversation are. So I'll just write the facts and let the feelings shine through them.

I arrived five minutes early, and was sitting and sketching in the exact same spot as yesterday. Since it's a Wednesday, the place was pretty empty. There were a few old men laughing and talking in the back, a lonely biker with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and the picture of a woman in the other, and Mr. Hong behind the counter. The owner had taken the liberty to read a magazine in order to pass the time, when William entered the place.

Mr. Hong straightened up and hid away the magazine, but the tall man ignored him completely as he came to me. Silently, he sat opposite to me, and I closed down my sketchbook and shoved it neatly to a side.

William looked at me with a curious, almost worried expression. "Tough day?"

Taken aback by his sharp yet accurate statement, I replied "Maybe. Why do you say that?"

He cocked his head at the empty Coors bottle next to my sketchbook, then turned those blue eyes to the half-empty one around my fingers. "You don't seem like the kind of fellow that drinks to get drunk."

Rubbing my temple slightly, I mumbled "I'm not here to get drunk."

"Of course not!" he said with urgency, surely afraid of having offended me. "You seem way more reasonable than that. But I understand what you're doing, I've been there quite often: just one more beer than usual. You won't get drunk, but you will relax. Nothing wrong with that."

I huffed in amusement. "You're a bad influence."

"You sound like my wife talking about our kids."

That actually made me chuckle. "Yes, I did have a tough day."

"What happened?"

I took a sip of my beer, buying me some time to think of an excuse. "It's a bit personal." I said as I brought down the bottle. "I hope you don't mind."

He nodded in agreement, a gentle smile on his face. "I understand perfectly, and I too subscribe to your philosophy of privacy. However, I wanted to ask you something."

Once again, I brought the bottle to my lips, ready to kiss to cool glass. "By all means."

"Does it have to do with the robots you're sketching?"

I choked on the kiss and almost spat out my lager. William looked at me keenly for a few seconds, his face neutral, but he was incapable to hide the cruel amusement in his eyes as he resumed: "You should sketch under the table, Henry. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't see _that_ much. Just enough to pique my interest."

Leaning closer to him after recovering my bearings, I tried to sound as serious as I could when I said: "This is my greatest secret. Only my wife knows about this, and even then it's only the characters, not the technical details. Promise me that you won't tell anyone."

"I promise." was his solemn reply. "May I see them?"

I took the sketchbook in my hand, allowing my fingers to rest on the battered cover. Turning to William again, I saw an almost childish eagerness in his eyes as he stretched his opened hand to it. "Please, may I see those designs?"

With some reluctance, I handed him the book. The man immediately peered through the pages, blue eyes flicking rapidly between the different parts sketched on the paper. Those same eyes began to fill with awe, bewilderment and doubt as he analyzed my designs.

"They're animatronics." he stated absent-mindedly after a minute or two. "You want to build advanced animatronics to entertain children."

"Yes." was my hushed answer.

"But, this is state of the art technology" He turned a page. "This is… revolutionary. Groundbreaking. It's the kind of thing that only exists in research laboratories in places like Oxford."

"Or places like MIT." I added. "Places we know. Technology we've seen. It's a shame that it might not happen."

He snapped his head at me, piercing me with his gaze. "What do you mean?"

"I'm running out of money." I finished my second beer of the afternoon, gently laying its glass corpse next to its twin. "And making those things will be very expensive. I applied for a loan in five different banks. They all said no."

"How much?"

I whispered the number, and he nodded thoughtfully as he mumbled "That's quite a bit. But it's not too much."

Surprised, I stared at him in the eyes, expecting some clarification. "There's still a fair amount of my inheritance left." he said lowly as he leaned closer. "I could give you the resources you need to get started."

I was dumbfounded. Kneading my knuckles on a side of my head, I whispered "You actually want to invest in me?"

"No, Henry. I want more." A fiery glint took hold of his eyes. "If you go on with this, I want to be the co-owner. Every decision goes through me as your partner. We would be equal in everything. I'm offering you a deal, and those are my conditions." He stretched his opened hand "Do you accept?"

Something clicked, and before my rational self could react, I found myself shaking William's hand energetically, smiling like a child on Christmas. Without me noticing, two words slipped from my mouth: "I do."


	3. A difficult beginning, Part 3

**Part 3**

 _Newspaper clipping from The Hurricane Herald_

 _Advertisements_

 _November 23th, 1975_

Used appliances wanted

Need to get rid of any old electrical appliance? Maybe just an old clock or typewriter taking too much space? Call Withers Mechanics at 801-474-5567. Same-day recovery guaranteed. (We do not pay you for your used appliances. We only collect them).

* * *

 _Henry Withers' personal journey_  
 _November 24th_

12:30 PM – I'm not very confident about William's idea. Using old parts for the prototypes might save us some money, but something tells me that we will regret it in the long run. Besides, 'Withers Mechanics' isn't even a registered name; someone might sue us for all I know. Nevertheless, we're making progress.

I'm currently working on a prototype of a jaw, but even I struggle to make out its shape. The thing is in front of me on my workbench, a strange amalgamation of wires, springs and gears mounted haphazardly on a wire frame. William recommended using small hydraulic pistons for the jaw's movement, but I'm unsure. Besides the cost, we might give too much power to the jaw, which might cause a rapture easily. I proposed a more traditional rack-and-pinion, but William correctly pointed out that the thing might not have the necessary speed for the type of movement that we seek. As it is, we might have to scale down on our earliest visions. Free-roam is still out of our reach. I'm confident in our knowledge; our wallet is the weakest link.

William's initial 'investment', as I will call it, is certainly coming in handy. It now seems silly of me to doubt his good intentions: he has proven himself a good friend and a talented entrepreneur. My knowledge of economics is non-existent, and although we are equally matched when it comes to robotics, his cool and analytical mind is an excellent counterweight to my more artistic tendencies.

However, we had an amusing discussion this morning regarding Fredbear. Since he has focused more on the robotics and left the more creative designs to me, he barely knows how the thing will actually look for the children. So he had a few things to say when he saw the bear, instead of the machine, for the first time:

"A purple fedora and long tie?" He scoffed, inspecting my sketch. "My man, he looks like a bootleg Yogi Bear."

I tried to take on a confident attitude and cover up the slight sting of his words as I replied: "If you have any better ideas, I'd love to hear them, friend."

William stayed silent, holding a hand under his chin, cool blue eyes locked steadily on the paper. This went on for multiple seconds, and I was sure he would give me the reason until he said casually "A bow tie and top hat."

"Excuse me?"

He lowered my sketch and turned to me, hiding his pride under a stoic façade. "The contrast between purple and gold is pretty nice, I'll give you that. But your Fredbear would look better with a top hat and bowtie."

I couldn't help but chuckle. "William, my bear was American. You just made him British."

He grinned slightly, and we agreed to discuss this matter some other time. If I don't get too caught up with work I'll write some more here.

* * *

 _November 25th_

3 PM – William once again proved himself a great companion. We now have a temporary solution for the lifelike movement issue. It is risky, but then again, what isn't?

"Henry!" he called out energetically as he stormed into JR's, a big rolled-up blueprint under his armpit, finding me sitting by the window. "Henry, my good man, I solved our problems!"

As humble as the king of England.

He ordered Mr. Hong to bring us two beers as he sat in front of me and spread out his blueprint. "What do you think?" he asked, having recovered from his unusual rush.

I studied the white lines drawn on navy blue paper, the silhouette of Fredbear hollowed out, and the round mechanisms spread through his body, detailed on the side of the paper.

"Spring locks?" I asked doubtfully.

William nodded, smiling just enough to see the light-yellow line of his teeth. "They're capable of securing all the animatronic parts as they're wound with a crank, pushing them to a side. At the same time, the back opens up like a sliding panel." He pointed at Fredbear's side and the complex mechanisms that would enable the task.

For a moment, nothing made sense; until I studied the diagrams and notes on paper. My eyes widened with realization, and I didn't notice Mr. Hong putting an ice-cold Miller in front of me.

"You want to put people inside of him?!" I blurted out.

Alarmed, he shushed me, looked around, and leaned closer. "Quiet now, this is a company secret."

"You can't just put people inside animatronics!" I hissed through my teeth.

Again, that confidence spark in his eyes. "Why not? If you want a free-roaming animatronic, this is the perfect solution. The circuitry needed for actual free-roam is still years away from our reach, but my... our mechanisms are second to none. Let the human be the circuits, at least for now. Whoever is in there would control the movement, aided by the regular motors and pistons. Think of it as a powered suit."

I kneaded my temple with my whitened knuckles, shaking my head slowly. "I don't know, friend. Why not a regular costume for walking around instead?"

He huffed in apparent disappointment, then took a quick sip of stout. "How pathetic! A modern marvel on stage, a cheap Disney knock-off on the floor. Is that how you want people to see your Fredbear?"

For a few seconds, I remained in thoughtful silence, slightly irritated by William's harsh words. However, the more I thought about it, the less ludicrous it seemed. In the long run, this would be easier to achieve than automated free-roam. Still, it's a monumental challenge that awaits us; one of many. Lorena's pregnancy might take some time off me, but I guess those are the little sacrifices that have to be made for a blessing as big as a child.

I will have to create a completely new system, small enough to allow a person to fit inside the suit and control it, yet powerful and complex enough to allow lifelike movement. However, I now realize something quite worrying that I ignored completely while William told me his idea.

What would happen to the person wearing the suit if the spring locks failed?

* * *

 _Lorena Withers' dairy (directed to her unborn child)_

 _November 28th, 1975_

My dear,

Your daddy gave me a wonderful idea yesterday. He likes to write about his days in some special books he has. He said that I should do the same for you, so we can read it together after you're born. That way, you can learn about me, and I can remember how small you once were as I see you grow up.

We still don't know if you're a boy or a girl. How can we? You've been inside me for less than two months. We will still have to wait for a while before going to a fancy hospital outside this town. Your daddy says that they have these wonderful new machines that use sound to see if a baby that's not born yet is a boy or a girl. I promise I will tell you more when you're bigger!

It's really cold right now. I'm at home, watching the grey clouds and hearing the wind as I write to you. Some kids passed by our house after school, all dressed up in puffy jackets and big boots. I imagined you walking with them, smiling and being happy. I can't wait to hear your laughter. Some doctors have said that there's a chance I won't because I'll go to Heaven when you're born. Your daddy's really worried about me, but I'm not afraid. No sir! My dear, I want to see you grow and learn and laugh. I want to read this with you. But if I have to go to Heaven, and you're reading this alone, know that I am with you.

I'll see if I can make something yummy for dinner because it's really hard for daddy to do that. At least he tries. And, believe it or not, he is getting better. Just very, very slowly.

Hugs and kisses,

Mom.

* * *

 _Henry Withers' personal journey_  
 _November 29th_

3:00 AM – I promised her I would sleep after what happened. For a while, I honestly tried, but my worry got the best of me. She's sleeping soundly, the bandage around her finger an ugly dark red. Thankfully, it wasn't much. We didn't even have to go to the hospital. But she still seems pale to me, and with a baby on the way... I don't even want to think what might've happened with a slightly deeper cut.

I had been absolutely absorbed by my work, carefully rearranging some wires of Fredbear's head in the garage ('Head' is a bit too generous; it still looks like scrap metal with some wires wrapped around it). I now see that the thing's components will have to be rebuilt to a certain degree, in order to allow a man's head to fit inside. It was only when I started yawning that I checked the time and realized it was well into the night, much later than our regular dinner time.

My thoughts went to my wife and the apology I would give her as I rushed out of the garage and into the living room. She was already sitting on the kitchen table, her back facing me, hands folded neatly on her lap. A pang of guilt went through me when I saw two cold plates of steamed vegetables and beef: one in front of her, the other right beside her.

"Honey, I'm so, so terribly sorry," I said in one breath, before releasing the stress of the day with a long sigh. "I got caught up on something and the time just flew by." I went up to her, laid my hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

She drew a bittersweet smile, her eyes meeting mine. "You and your toys... You let the food grow cold."

"I bet it's still amazing."

Her smile became a smirk. "Definitely better than yours." We shared a soft chuckle and soon began eating. She was telling me about the diary she's writing for the baby, when I noticed a faint red smudge on her glass of water. The red flags in my mind rose up immediately, and the alarm went off when I noticed that she was keeping her left hand under the table.

"Let me see your hand," I ordered, interrupting whatever it was that she was talking about. At the moment, nothing else mattered.

She showed a casual smile. "Darling, it's nothing."

"Your hand, now." I'd realize later that I was practically growling at my wife.

Lorena kept her eyes on me for a few seconds, clearly upset, until she finally brought up her left hand. The index finger was absolutely covered in crimson patches, and the large band-aids wrapped around the middle of it were absolutely soaked in blood. My stomach became cold and hard as ice.

"I nicked my finger while chopping the veggies." she said flatly, "It's nothing, and I didn't want to scare you. It's just..."

I didn't wait for her to finish before hastily standing up, practically slamming the chair against the wooden table and storming to the phone. "What are you doing?" I heard her call out to me, voice raised.

Without looking at her, I hissed "I'm calling you an ambulance."

"Why?!" Her voice continued to rise as I approached the phone. "Because I have a little cut?!"

"Because you might bleed yourself to death!" I yelled, picking the phone's receiver.

She let out a chortle, crossing her arms. "That's ridiculous and you know it. Yes, I have Von Willebrand's and yes, I am bleeding. But it's not worth a half-state trip to get me a bottle of pills that I don't need at all!"

"For God's sake Lorena, think about our child if you won't think about yourself!"

Her sudden silence and pained eyes filled me with regret. "You take that back, Henry." Her whisper was dangerously low. "I love the kid that's in me. Our kid. And I know my body better than you do, no matter what your damned male pride thinks. I know what deserves the stress of a trip to the hospital and what doesn't. This..." She lifted her bloodied finger. "This is nothing compared to other things that have happened, and you know it, because you've always been there. And you're always worried about me."

"I worry about you because I love you." was my low answer.

She sighed. "I know, dear. But sometimes it's too much. And now that I'm pregnant you're borderline paranoid!" My wife stepped closer, her lithe feet loud on the old polished wood. "If you love me, trust me."

Before I knew it she had taken my trembling hand into her own, and I felt a strange liquid warmth as she squeezed it gently.

"I'm sorry about what I said." I murmured, "But please take care of yourself, okay?"

When she pulled back her hand I found my fingers covered with dark-red patches. Before I could process the strange feeling of her blood drying on my skin, she pecked my cheek with a soft kiss and whispered, "Can we eat now?"

I stared into her pleading, wide eyes of dark honey and nodded.

So here I am, wide awake, my fingertips red after replacing those band-aids with proper bandages. I normally like the silence of the early morning, but right now I'm looking forward to working on something. My overfilled mind is in desperate need of release, and I'm getting tired of sketching Fredbear over and over.

Maybe, I could give him a friend. Yes, I will. There will be two. A couple, singing and dancing on that first stage with children cheering and whooping constantly.

I can't write anymore; I have to draw it. Sleep can wait.


	4. A difficult beginning, Part 4

**A/N:** Thank you for being here once again. I apologize for not keeping the promise I made last time. Real life didn't give me a lot of time to write these past months. Not too much happens in this chapter, that's mostly a preamble for things to come. Nevertheless, honest reviews are always appreciated. As always, happy reading.

* * *

 **Part 4**

 _Henry Withers' Personal Journey (1976)_

February 14th

8 PM – I don't know much about physics, but I do know that Einstein's theory of relativity is incomplete, for I've experienced some very noticeable time dilations when I'm working on Fredbear. As I lose myself in that chaotic mess of wires and actuators, my surroundings distort and warp. They might even disappear completely at times. I rarely check my watch when I'm working, but when I do, I swear its arms spin faster than normal.

I'm sure that this is a physical law awaiting to be written down, and not some excuse for what I'm about to admit: Lorena and I were never that romantic, but it's still bizarre that I've spent more of this Valentine's Day in the company of Fredbear than hers.

"You should've married that bear instead of me." she pouted mockingly, shoving open the door into my garage-turned-workshop with her shoulder. Though her tone was playful, I couldn't help but feel the slightest sting of guilt. Her white maternity dress bulged across her belly, and she carried a cool bottle of lager in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other.

With a small smile, I wiped my greasy hands on my old jeans and took the bottle. "I'm not sure if the state laws allow marriage between a man and a robot bear," I replied, then sipped the frizzy cool beer. Lorena sampled her green tea in return. "We need to call the statehouse."

We turned to admire the progress. The naked, eyeless head now stands atop the crude endoskeleton of salvaged metal. The latter is just temporary: the pencil sketches of a new painting that will be erased as progress is made. There is no fur yet, and it's hard to recognize Fredbear's future face as anything at all. Some PVC gears connect a horizontal U-shaped piece of aluminum, the lower jaw, to a dome-like head, covered in colorful wires and tapes. I finally settled on some small but powerful servos for the jaw movement. The speed will not be ideal, but considering that this whole thing will have to be wearable, weight and compactness have quickly become the main issues to circumvent.

"Well, I think you two would make a beautiful couple." resumed Lorena with feigned seriousness, "And who am I to stand in your way?"

"My wife."

"Good, no issue then." Without breaking character, she took a large sip of tea, laid down the cup on my workbench, and took off her wedding ring. If I didn't know her better, I'd have been extremely upset.

She then returned to me and put her ring in my free hand. "And?" she demanded after a few seconds.

I smiled in amusement. "And... what?"

"Aren't you going to pop the question? It's the day of love!"

"Uhh..." I looked at her, then at the mass of wires and metal, and back at her. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope." Her playful grin widened. "I wanna see you propose marriage to Fredbear."

I waited for a few seconds, hoping that she'd retract and say it was all a joke. But she remained firm, completely serious in her silliness. After a while, I just shook my head and raised my half-empty bottle at the unfinished animatronic. "It's not going to happen."

"Come on darling! It'll be fun!"

I couldn't help but laugh nervously. "It'll be stupid! Really stupid! And you don't care for Valentine's Day, we both don't care!"

She raised her shoulders. "Just the kind of stupid thing for a stupid day."

Letting out a little sigh, I locked my gaze where Fredbear's future eyes will be. "Fredbear, I-" A chuckle interrupted me and I turned to my wife. "I can't do this Lorena!"

It was clear she was struggling not to laugh herself. Holding a hand in front of her mouth, she peeped out: "Please, you're doing great!"

"Good God, okay." After clearing my throat and straightening my smile, I resumed in a dramatic deep voice: "Fredbear, ever since I met you, I'm a better man." I went down on one knee, trying to ignore Lorena's muffled laughs. "You are the light of my world, my muse, my oasis in the desert." By now I was truly getting in character. "There have been other animatronic bears in my life, but I want to give you my heart and soul, you beautiful creature."

I presented the ring to the metal endoskeleton. "Will you do the honor of being my wife?"

Fredbear did not respond.

Lorena, however, was howling with laughter, hugging her swollen belly as tears trickled down her pale cheeks. Every trace of silliness or shame turned into fiery happiness when I saw her like this. I stood up and took her in my arms, slipping the ring into her hand, before simply indulging in the sweet sound of her mischievous laughter.

"That was really stupid," she whispered after a minute or two, exhausted from her own laughing.

"It really was." I replied into her ear, "Don't tell anyone."

She giggled lowly. "As if anyone would believe me."

We stayed together for a few more minutes, before having a light dinner and going to our bedroom, where I'm writing this entry. Tomorrow I'll be meeting William at JR's; I'm excited to reveal Fredbear's companion to my friend.

* * *

February 15th

5 PM – There was a surprisingly large crowd at JR's this afternoon. People usually stay warm and safe at home on a cold day like this, and drinking on a Sunday is still heavily frowned upon by most locals. This remains a very religious town, though my time in Boston has definitely loosened some of my old inhibitions. Mr. Hong sometimes closes early on Sundays, but today his establishment was loud and warm with human energy.

A large band of tourists from Nebraska had occupied most of the seats and all of the barstools. I scrounged around for an unoccupied quiet place for a few seconds, when I saw Mr. Hong calling me over energetically from behind the bar. He let me know that William was outside, on the side of the building opposite to the parking lot, before slipping away hurriedly to attend a new client.

Slight irritation welled inside of me when I stepped back into the biting cold I had just escaped from. The frosty wooden porch cracked under my winter boots as I rounded the corner to meet the tall and slender figure of William leaning against the wall, hands sheltered in his heavy trench coat. The fleeting image of a Bond villain passed through my mind when he greeted me with his British accent.

"I presumed you'd be as annoyed by those brutes as myself." continued William.

"They're not brutes, they're just tourists."

He gave me a puzzled look. "What's the difference again?"

We both chuckled lowly, and little white clouds puffed out of our mouths and noses. After a second or two, he resumed: "How's your Fredbear and his friend?"

"I'm almost done with Fredbear's head, and I'm planning out the basic circuitry of the body. As for his friend..." At this I brought forth and opened the sketchbook nuzzled under my arm, flipping through the pages until I arrived at the final design.

It was a rabbit with Fredbear's color scheme. The body was more slender, large green eyes atop an unrealistic snout adorned the round face, and articulated ears rose from slits atop the head. Besides that, it was identical to Fredbear.

William didn't say anything before ripping the book from my chilly hands, scrutinizing the page with intense but illegible eyes. After a somewhat awkward silence, he offered back the book and said flatly: "I'd like to discuss a few issues of yours with the mechanics, but she's perfect as a character."

I was taken aback. It was near impossible to do anything that didn't elicit a critical response from William. "You really like her so much?" I asked, taking back the book.

He nodded. "I'd like to be more involved in her making, if you'd let me."

"Of course, but I don't have a defined gender for the character."

"It needs to be a female, Henry." was his serious reply, "We need a character that little girls can identify with. We'll find a female voice for her and give her some curves if we have to. But do not overdo it; we want to attract normal girls, not strange men."

I sighed. "Of course, friend."

We debated the design for a few more minutes before the conversation eventually turned to more mundane topics. Remembering William's children, I asked about Michael.

"He's still trying to fit in," replied William, looking away from me momentarily. "To be honest, he has a certain... bitterness inside of him. At least he hasn't killed his little brother yet."

"Come on Will, don't say that." I tried to sound airy, for I've always believed that words, even spoken as a joke, have a prophetic power. I suppose superstitions are impossible to let go for me.

"I'd like to meet them." I continued after a moment. "We've known each other for more than six months now. You've seen Lorena a couple of times, but I don't know anyone in your family."

A wry smile from William. "You know me."

"Come on, friend..."

"There's nothing productive or interesting that would come from you meeting my family." Although his interruption was rather curt, his tone remained low and friendly. "You'd be wasting your time. As it is, we're behind schedule. Keep working on your Fredbear and I'll deal with the rest."

The meeting ended shortly after that. I'm a man that loves privacy, and in a way, William shares this ideal. However, I still know little about him. Is he being too secretive? A small sense of discomfort bothered me on my way home while I pondered this. However it might be, it's still his life and his choice.

* * *

February 16th

1 AM – Sleeps eludes me once more. I'm writing by the feeble glow of our nightlight, back turned to my sleeping wife.

We were enjoying a small dinner of her making, silently basking in each other's presence. Thankfully, Lorena is the opposite of those tiresome people who fill every little silence with meaningless and mechanical chatter. We were about done when she asked about my meeting with William.

I swallowed my steamed carrot before answering: "Same old. But he fell in love with that rabbit design I showed you."

"Really?" Her fork pierced through a tender head of broccoli. "So, you'll make him after you're done with Fredbear?"

"It's a her, actually." I replied, turning my attention to the chicken breast on my plate. "We decided that it'd be better to make the character female, for the little girls."

She rapidly turned her gaze from her plate to meet mine. "We decided, or William decided?"

I couldn't help but frown slightly at this reply. This has been a recurring issue since she met William. "Lorena, it was a good decision." I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. "No matter who thought of it. We're equals, remember? There's nothing wrong with replacing an old idea with one that's better, whether it's his or mine."

She laid down her cutlery and turned her whole attention to me. "You keep saying that you're equals, but you're doing all the work! What has he done on the past months?"

"I've told you before: he's taking care of all the bureaucratic nonsense that I hate so much." I smiled, putting aside my own fork and knife. "Meanwhile, I get to do the fun stuff, the hands-on work. You know how much I hate paperwork."

A small silence. Her honey eyes went down to her plate, then back to me. "Sometimes I feel like he has the final say, Henry. I just want to make sure he won't end up using you."

I chuckled. "Using me? This is still my idea, my characters, my designs, just our restaurant. If anything, I'm using him, with all that money he's put into this."

"Just make sure he doesn't put you on a leash with that." answered Lorena hastily, slightly worried.

I stretched my hand on the table, and she soon laid her own lithe fingers on my palm and intertwined them with my own. "Don't you think it's a miracle that I met someone like William, in a town like this?" I continued, "Just trust me, okay?"

"Okay." Her lips drew a small smile. "I trust you."


	5. A difficult beginning, Part 5

**Part 5**

 _Henry Withers' Personal Journal (1976)_

 _June 29th_

5 PM – Summers in this town are something special. The sun radiates generously and tirelessly from a cloudless azure sky on red soil and green grass. Small flocks of children occasionally come running down a quiet street, laughing and stumbling away as fast as they appeared. When I saw Lorena reading in our living room this morning, her book resting on her round belly and illuminated by sunlight coming through the window, I pictured our daughter amongst those kids.

She laid down Charlotte's Web on the chair's armrest when I came by her side. Thanks to her slight, almost teasing smile, I knew she knew what I was about to say: "Our girl will be born without a name."

Lorena's expression never changed, but that confidence and ease in her gaze seemed to grow. "You had a chance for a name, but you said no," she replied nonchalantly.

"I don't like the idea of naming our kids after our parents," I said, trying to match her carefree tone. "It's like repeating history."

My wife shrugged slightly. "Agnes is a pretty name."

"It's an old lady's name. My mother was old, so it was acceptable."

A small sigh rolled out Lorena's mouth. "Darling, let it be."

"I just want to have a general idea!" I said, getting quite wound up, "I don't want to be flipping coins in my head with the registration form in front of me! I-"

She interrupted my next sentence by taking my hand in hers. Soft fingers kneaded my calloused palm and guided it to her belly, stroking over her white dress.

"She's kicking." whispered my wife, looking dreamily at our hands. "She has something to say."

It took me a few seconds to feel those little thumps that affect an expecting parent so much, but when I did my worry seemed to melt into a strange acceptance, brought by a trance-like state of wonder.

"What's she saying?" I asked, voice hoarse and low with emotion.

"She's saying that we'll know it when the time comes," replied Lorena softly, before turning her eyes from her belly to me. "There are things that just happen, Henry. Why is she kicking now, of all times? Why did we fall in love? There's not a single answer, maybe there is none. And that's okay. The right name can't be forced, can't be truly chosen. It will choose itself. It will happen. Just let it be."

"Just tell me that you'll be by my side." I pleaded.

Lorena smiled gently and poked my nose, enticing a chuckle out of both of us. I knew then, that things will turn out well.

* * *

 _June 30th_

9 PM - Few things in life are more satisfying than accomplishing a goal when you thought you would fail. Fredbear is almost complete, at least when it comes to its mechanisms. The thing in my workshop is a vaguely humanoid bundle of wires around metal plates embedded with servos and springlocks, but what remains now is mostly cosmetic. As it is, those hollow eyes and that skull-like frame of metal for a head, with wires traveling around them like blood veins and nerves, are somewhat unsettling. There's still a lot of work to do before this robotic Frankenstein monster becomes a bright, kid-friendly bear. However, I will be able to dedicate some time to Lorena and the baby. The birth could happen at any moment now.

I'm hoping that Spring Bonnie will be quicker, since I will only have to redo what I did for Fredbear. Mechanically speaking, they will be almost identical. A lever-operated system will push the metal plates holding the robotic parts against a future fur-covered shell, allowing an operator to step inside and control the animatronics like suits.

Progress is being made on other fronts. William called me this afternoon: a promising building is finally available to us. It used to be a small dinner, so it's perfect for our purposes. The kitchen and side rooms are small and surround the larger central area, where we will hopefully be able to set up a functioning stage. He will try to negotiate the lowest possible price with the owner; a job much better suited for him than me. We will then look for kitchen supplies and eventually a contractor for

Lorena is calling me. Her water broke.

* * *

 _Newspaper clipping from The Hurricane Herald_

 _Obituaries_

 _July 2nd, 1976_

In remembrance of Lorena Withers  
(November 11th, 1949 - July 1st, 1976)

It is with heavy sorrow that we announce the death of Mrs. Lorena Withers in the early morning of July first. As a new resident of Hurricane, Ms. Withers arrived with her husband less than a year ago with the resolve to start a new life and a family. Although she suffered from Von Willebrand's Disease, a blood-clotting disorder, she is remembered by her husband as tenacious, cheerful and hopelessly optimistic. Mrs. Withers passed away for her family, as a severe case of postpartum hemorrhage claimed her life shortly after giving birth to her daughter. Anyone willing to celebrate Lorena's life is welcome on July 5th at 3:00 PM at the First Southern Baptist Church. Lorena is survived by her loving husband Henry and her newborn daughter Charlotte.

* * *

 _Henry Withers' Personal Journal_

 _July 3rd_

1 AM - I can't feel the pencil between my fingers. I can't feel the tiredness of 48 hours without sleep in a hospital. I couldn't even feel the joy of my daughter's minuscule fingers wrapped around my thumb. The unbearable pain of my wife's death canceled out the overflowing joy of my daughter's birth. I am empty and I am nothing. Maybe if I write down what happened I might be able to feel something; pain is better than emptiness.

Lorena's yell interrupted my last entry and I rushed out of our bedroom, but something compelled me to bring along this little journal in my pocket. My wife was rather calm, looking more excited than nervous, eyes full of unbelieving wonder. I quickly called the medical center in St. George we had visited before during the pregnancy (Hurricane still doesn't have its own center) and told them what had happened. Even after mentioning Lorena's condition they told me not to call back until her contractions were well underway, but promised to send an ambulance as soon as things were that far.

And so we waited together in the living room through most of the night, fingers intertwined, looking out the window in expectant silence. "She's coming," whispered Lorena once in a while, "She's coming." I merely nodded and smiled, trying to mask my anxiousness.

Everything really started to become serious an hour or two before dawn. The movements of my wife's loins became rhythmical and intense, and I called the center once more. The assistant hung the phone with the promise of a dispatched ambulance and once again we were reduced to waiting.

But we had waited too long. The brave excitement in my wife's face turned into discomfort and then pain as I held her hand and tried to encourage her as well as I could. Finally, the ambulance arrived: a Cadillac station-wagon with a boxy rear adorned with lights and sirens. The driver and medic jumped out in an almost theatrical fashion before bursting into the porch with a stretcher. The medic helped me carry Lorena outside, who couldn't walk on her own at this point, and we laid her down on the stretcher and unto the ambulance. As soon as the doors were slammed shut, we tore out of the neighborhood and I mentioned my wife's disease; the medic became furious and yelled at me for not telling anyone about it until now. I'm a quiet man who hates violence, but at that moment I swear I could've broken his nose.

The drive lasted for less than half an hour, but in that short span of time our daughter was born on a moving car. In retrospect, I think it was faster than it should've been. I will not describe the details; it suffices to say that witnessing a childbirth would make any man who is not a medical professional feel absolutely useless and weak. But the result...

The result is sleeping by my side in a little crib, but in that ambulance the sound of her crying turned me into a puddle of tears, and when she opened her eyelids I was looking into my wife's eyes: sweet and pure dark honey. I sat on a small box and cradled the baby to my chest, her minuscule body wrapped in a small towel and gauze. It was all we had in that ambulance.

I was so overcome with emotions that I didn't notice the crimson stain spreading greedily over Lorena's dress until the medic pointed it out. In less than four minutes my wife was laying on a pool of her own blood that wobbled and dripped from the stretcher unto the ribbed metal floor. I held my crying child in my hands as the medic went to Lorena, who was in a daze at this point, and started to massage her still-swollen belly. I became a silent spectator, trapped in my own state of shock and fear and amazement. Too many emotions fought for space, crammed and ultimately blocked my brain.

Noticing this, the medic barked at me: "What's gonna be her name buddy?" He was trying to jerk me out of my useless state. I looked down at the round, pink face and stubby round nose, and it came to me without any conscious thought.

"Charlotte," I stated dryly as I looked back at my wife. She was barely conscious, her head rolled sideways with the movements of the car, eyelids closed and mouth slightly open. But she still managed to give one last feeble smile, and her purple lips mouthed our daughter's name: "Charlotte..." Although there was no sound I heard her voice whispering that name, her last word.

By the time the ambulance stopped most of its floor was splattered with blood. Lorena's naked legs and dress were smothered with dark-red stains. The stretcher had become a bowl of blood and other things. As soon as we weren't moving I heard the driver's door open, then two or three fast and heavy steps, then the back door was opened and we were exposed to the driver's silhouette against the stark white lights of the medical center's entrance. The bowl of blood overfilled and spilled as the medic and the driver took it from opposite ends, lifting my unconscious wife and rushing to the entrance. I held Charlotte against my chest as the night air revitalized her crying, and followed the men.

We soon found ourselves in a little and perfectly white corridor. Through my daughter's wails, the medic yelled at a nurse in perfectly white clothes to bring the perfectly white emergency hospital bed at the end of the corridor. As she complied with her orders they spoke in words I couldn't understand; they seemed so far away. The nurse came with the rolling bed, its little rubber wheels squeaking on perfectly white tiles, and the two men hoisted the stretcher unto the bed. With that movement, more blood was spilled that shattered the perfect whiteness of the corridor. Somehow, that gave me a tiny bit of cruel satisfaction. My wife was dying; nothing deserved to remain untouched and clean.

The two men and the nurse rolled the bed to a small emergency room and I followed. The driver left as soon as Lorena's bed was in place. The nurse asked me about her blood type and I heard myself mumbling "O-positive" mechanically. She then left as well, leaving the medic and me alone with my wife. He laid two fingers against her pale neck for five seconds, moved them a few inches, waited again, and finally laid his hand on the left of her unmoving chest.

The medic looked at me with hardened eyes and shook his head slowly. I wasn't surprised.

Everything became a blur. The nurse returned with bags of blood that were no longer needed. The medic and she asked me questions and I gave the appropriate answers; questions about Lorena, her condition, our marriage, her pregnancy, our families, what to do with her body. All the while some part of me wondered just what the point of it all was. She was dead, and no amount of questions would undo that.

Right after filling in Lorena's death certificate I was tasked to complete Charlotte's birth certificate. Afterward, the nurse offered me to take my daughter to the center's small maternity ward. I refused vehemently, but it soon became clear that I had to choose between staying with my dead wife and watching over my newborn daughter. I chose the latter, heartbroken to leave behind Lorena's body so soon, but confident that this is what she would've wanted.

That's what happened. I've been by Charlie's side since then. I don't remember eating or drinking, but I suppose I must've done that because I'm fully conscious; I think I'm even more alert and nervous than usual. The doctors will do some tests on Charlie to determine if she carries her mother's disease or not.

Did I just write Charlie instead of Charlotte? I guess names truly choose themselves.

My daughter just opened her eyes again. She's twisting her arms and legs meekly, getting to know the world with those big brown eyes. They looked at me again. I want to tell her everything: that I'm her father and I love her more than anything in the world, that I will keep her safe no matter what, that the memory of her mother will watch over her, that I will walk her down the aisle one day, and that she won't have to cry when she buries me. I want to tell her so much, but I won't do it just now; the due time will come.

For now, I'm satisfied with the bittersweet joy she's giving me.


	6. Baby steps, Part 1

**A/N:** Welcome back guys. First of all, I'm very thankful for your support on the latest chapter. It was possibly the hardest thing I've written yet, and I'm happy that, judging by your reviews, I achieved the effect and quality I was striving for. Second of all, I apologize if this chapter seems a bit short. I've been rearranging a lot of things with this story to the point that it barely resembles what I had in mind originally, but I'm confident that these changes will be for the best. And lastly, thank you for your patience with my long update times. As always, reviews and constructive criticism are highly encouraged and appreciated, and of course happy reading!

* * *

 **Journal 2: Baby Steps**

 **Part 1**

 _Letter from William Afton to Henry Withers._

 _July_ _21st, 1976._

Dear Henry,

Since you have failed to show up at our regular meetings in JR's (Hong told me he hasn't seen you in weeks), since you haven't picked up the phone, and since your neighbors told me you've become more elusive than Bigfoot, I'm forced to write this letter like an imbecile from a hundred years ago.

Although I can't say my marriage is as rosy as the one you had, I understand the pain of losing a loved one. I gave you a couple of weeks to grieve, I respected your wish to be alone and your need to take care of little Charlotte. I even tolerated your lack of progress with your Fredbear and my Spring Bonnie (have you even started on her?) However, time is ticking. More eyes are set upon that diner, and if we don't get that building soon someone else will. If that happens, everything will have been for nothing.

Grief makes men irrational, but I trust you will be able to bring yourself above that sea of sentimentality. Do not let your lost love drown your ambitions. Do whatever you have to do to get back on track. I reiterate my offer to leave little Charlotte under the care of my wife. Gabriel already passed his first birthday, and I think if she managed with one, my wife will manage with two. Don't worry about Michael, he knows how to take care of himself. He's already eight years old: it's time for that boy to start growing up.

Once again, please let us get back to work. Life goes on. Besides, if this doesn't work, I don't know what you would do to sustain yourself, and I'm sure that neither do you. If thinking about yourself is not enough, think about your daughter. If that's not enough, think about your wife. If that's not enough, think about our money, or more specifically, my money.

Forgive me if that sounded harsh, so let me make a brief summary of this letter: my man, please get back to work.

I'll wait for your response.

William.

* * *

 _Henry Withers' Personal Journal_

 _July 22nd, 1976_

8 PM – I think Charlie's finally asleep, thank God. I'm almost jealous of her; ever since she learned how to cry, she hasn't stopped. I've run to and from her crib, heated milk, changed diapers, and cradled her to sleep so many times that I often find my body moving mechanically while my mind wanders away in a foggy stupor. My sleeplessness has long ago turned from tiredness and sleep to a hazy, jittery state of constant alert. What was left of my circadian rhythm is gone; day and night make little difference to me. Charlotte alone decides when I get to sleep, eat or shower. When I heard people say that babies become the center of your life, I never thought it would be so literal.

However, I'm thankful for this in a certain way. Purpose is the enemy of sadness. If it weren't for Charlie, I don't think I could live without Lorena. Taking care of my daughter has filled part of the void left in me by my wife's passing. The darkness surrounding me is thick and heavy, but I'm finally starting to see a pinpoint of light. William's letter arrived just as the will to retake our project flared up again. I was surprised by his dry tone, but given my complete isolation from the world these past weeks, his irritation is partly justified. Besides, he is British.

His offer is somewhat tempting, but I don't feel comfortable leaving my daughter in my friend's company just yet. I will pay him a long overdue visit to meet his family first. However, I don't want to carry Charlie out of the house in case of an emergency. A baby is fragile enough, a baby with Von Willebrand's is even worse. I have no choice but to visit the only person in this town that I can trust now that Lorena is gone. Calling her has been futile; she hangs up as soon as she hears my voice. I should've spent more time growing connections to others here because I am not looking forward to that meeting.

* * *

 _July 23rd_

2 PM – The walk was shorter than I expected, and Charlie's stroller carried her safely on its maiden voyage. Part of my worry was dispersed as I enjoyed the fresh air and pleasurable temperature, with Charlie babbling occasionally and smiling at the world with drool-plastered lips. That was until we reached Jen's trailer. It stood in an empty lot of a bock at the edge of town; a sour contrast to the well-kept houses of the neighborhood. Her front lawn consisted of a pot with a dead plant that was already being overtaken by tiny weeds, and the entrance was three flimsy wooden steps that led to a cracked plywood door.

I took a deep breath, released the stroller gingerly and knocked on the door. Some muffled words and shuffling came from the inside, then some steps. The door was jerked open violently and Jen's bleary face looked at me with a mixture of confusion and disdain.

I cleared my throat. "Hi..."

She slammed the door and stomped back inside. The loud noise triggered a powerful wail from Charlotte, breaking the neighborhood's peaceful silence.

"Jen, I'm sorry, okay?" My voice was barely audible through my daughter's crying.

"Leave me alone Henry!"

"I know you're angry at me, and I deserve it, but please let's just talk."

Charlie's crying became more powerful. I climbed down to the stroller and took her in my arms, bringing her teary face to my chest as I rocked her gently. We went back to the door.

Pressing my face against the door's crack, trying not to be louder than strictly necessary, I said: "We need your help, Jen."

Her answer was a cold silence, interrupted only by Charlie's ebbing cries.

"Did you see the baby I have with me?" I resumed after a few seconds, "Do you know who she is?"

More silence. Jen's bitter and reluctant voice then came through the door. "She's your daughter, right? Congratulations to the happy goddamn family! Send my love to Lorena! Now leave me alone."

I swallowed down the bitter knot in my throat. "Lorena's dead."

The silence that followed was drastically different from the previous. Jen's regret and shame could be felt in the still air as Charlie let out a few choking sobs.

"I didn't know." Jen's low voice was almost impossible to hear.

I released some tension with a long sigh. "That's alright."

The breeze ruffled the dead plant next to the wooden steps that creaked under my slightest movements. Charlie babbled and gripped her blanket weakly. A windchime rung in the distance.

"You're still there, aren't you?" resumed Jen.

"Still here. Please, come out. Let's talk."

"Now's not a good time."

"I don't think there's a good time for this."

A low, tinny chuckle. "Damn you, Henry."

"We need you, Jen." I didn't bother to raise my voice. Somehow, I knew she was right behind the door. "I can't do this on my own. I thought I could but I can't. You're the only family I have left."

As soon as I said those words something changed in the air. It blew out the relative calm that had settled between us; I struck a spark that rekindled a dead fire.

With a heated voice, Jen said what I knew she'd say: "You never gave a damn about me when everything was peachy, but now that you need me we're family again."

"As I said, you deserve to be angry."

"I am. You didn't tell me about your mother's death, you didn't invite me to the funeral or mention me in her obituary as her adoptive daughter..."

"She wasn't your mother and you could've gone if you wanted to." I interrupted, and immediately I regretted what I said.

"There it is!" she screamed in mock triumph, "I loved her too, but you cut me from your life as soon as you could, just like our father! 'Only son', my ass."

Charlie started to grow restless again, so I began rocking her once more, bowing my head under the ongoing, long-overdue assault as bitter regret filled my mouth.

"And when he died, he left everything to you, his beloved son." Jen's voice oozed with spite. "How was Boston, college boy? Expensive, wasn't it? But you never needed to work, no, daddy gave you everything in a silver plate while you played with robots. Meanwhile, I'm here, working whatever miserable gig I can find in this broken town and living in a matchbox."

"Mom left a big house behind." I replied, surprised by my own following words: "There's a lot of space and it's not far away."

Another silence from Jen, this time surely from shock. She took a few seconds before blurting out: "What the hell is that supposed to mean?! If you think I'm gonna live with you after everything that happened..."

"Just for a while." I pleaded, "Help me out with your niece for an afternoon while I visit a friend." I sensed she was about to interrupt me, so I raised my voice. "I have to do this visit before leaving Charlie with him."

There I felt another sort of silence from Jen: a pensive, dubious one. "For her to be my niece I'd have to be your sister," she said at last.

"We share a father."

"That wasn't enough for you, why should it be enough for me?"

"You don't mean that."

"Pretty sure I do."

"Then open the door."

Some seconds of silence made it clear that I had struck a weakness.

"It's easy to say no to someone when you're not actually seeing them." I resumed, "If you're so sure of yourself, open that door, look at my baby and me in the eyes and say, 'No'".

The windchime ringed in the distance once more, only softer. Charlie stared up at me with an almost-questioning expression, before darting her gaze sideways. "I'm not sure about this either, baby girl," I whispered.

Eventually, the door opened. Jen stepped outside, allowing me to finally see her completely. The similarities between us were undeniable, even if it was clear that she was the oldest by a couple of years. She wore a creased white shirt and dusty black pants that ended with some shoes in desperate need of polishing; the spitting image of a greasy spoon diner waitress.

She also looked much less secure than her voice suggested.

"Is it a yes or a no, Jen?" I prompted.

For a moment her unsure expression hardened, and I feared I'd angered her into saying no. Then, Charlie turned to her, babbling happily as she reached for the unknown person with minuscule and uncoordinated fingers. Jen's hard façade shattered and for a moment I was looking at the girl from my childhood, my half-sister for better or for worse.

She agreed to look after Charlie tomorrow afternoon.


	7. Baby steps, Part 2

**A/N:** Good night everyone, I hope you're doing well. Once again, please accept my apologies for the massive delay between chapters. Due to certain events, I've lost a good deal of motivation to take on creative endeavors. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always I encourage you to leave your reviews and constructive criticism. Happy reading and happy holidays!

* * *

 **Part 2**

 _Henry Withers' Personal Journal_

 _July 24th 1976_

9 PM – Jen left and Charlie fell asleep some time ago, so I finally have some time to describe my visit to William. If I write down the facts I might be able to give myself an informed opinion on what to do; I'm confused enough as it is.

His small, single-story house was part of those real estate projects that sprout rapidly at the edge of towns like weeds, giving rise to small fields of cookie-cutter houses. I checked the address multiple times when I found myself in front of the supposed house. Just like all the others, a small concrete walkway on a tiny front lawn led to the remarkably unremarkable building. I followed this walkway and knocked on the door.

Not a second later I heard the pattering of feet from behind the door that was soon opened by a frail-looking boy. I found myself staring at a younger clone of William. His pale, skinny frame was clad in a loose t-shirt, and his blue eyes stared at me keenly with that kind of innocent confusion unique to young children.

"Hello, you must be Michael." I began in a friendly tone, "My name is Henry. I'm a friend of your dad. He said I could visit."

He kept staring at me, but now something else appeared in that stare: slight fear. "Father will be here shortly." His voice was low and submissive; unusually thin even for a boy his age. Surprisingly, he had inherited William's accent as well.

I offered a small smile to lessen his uneasiness. "That's alright, I'm not in a hurry."

The boy turned around quickly and hopped back to the interior of the house, leaving the door half open. I quickly peered through the slight crack between the door and its frame but was unable to make out any details. After a few seconds I heard some indistinguishable voices, and after a few more moments my friend opened the door with great enthusiasm: it nearly flew off its hinges.

"Henry, my man!" boomed William, giving my shoulder a hearty shake before I could even stretch my hand, "Wonderful timing! Lunch is almost served. Please, come in! We have a lot to discuss."

I returned his greeting and stepped inside. If the house's exterior was boring and drab, its interior was the definition of an anachronism. The modern, clean and rectangular spaces of the building clashed with its antique decorations. Ornate vases and silverware rested atop carved mahogany trunks. Imitations of famous paintings from different periods and movements, from the Renaissance to cubism, hung sporadically to the wall. Old bookcases showed off a collection of titles that could almost be described as snobbish. Dante, Goethe, Shakespeare, Einstein, Nietzsche and Schrödinger mocked me from their books, and I asked myself is reading genre fiction occasionally was so bad.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting from William's house, but it definitely wasn't this.

William's voice and yellow-tinted smile ended my distraction. "I know it's not much, but that's all I could bring from the old country." We started walking towards an eight-seat dinner table that looked similarly antique. It occupied a small space between the living room's red sofas and a closed door that I assumed led to the kitchen. As we sat down in front of each other the only sound in the room was the metronomic ticking of a grandfather's clock; the cutlery had been set already.

"So..." William cleared his throat and folded his arms neatly on the table. "Have you resumed work?"

I rested my head on my hand. "Not yet," I confessed, "but Fredbear's almost done and I think Spring Bonnie will take half the time, probably less."

My friend, though serious, seemed mostly pleased. "Excellent. Then I will arrange the purchase of the building." A tiny sliver of a smile. "We're making progress, my man."

I returned the smile. "We are."

The kitchen's door then swung open smoothly, and a pale, serious woman in dull clothes emerged with a tray carrying two glasses and a water jar. She laid down the glasses rather roughly in front of us, filled them somewhat hastily with water, and left the half-empty jar at the table. Then, she marched back to the kitchen, and when she returned her tray had two modest plates of stewed beef and mashed potatoes. Since there was nothing green, I knew it had to be real English cuisine.

As soon as she served me, William said "Thank you, Margaret. You can go now. The men are talking."

Without saying anything or breaking a smile the woman left and headed to a bedroom on the other side of the house, leaving behind an air of discontent.

"I didn't know you had a maid," I said.

"She's my wife."

"Oh." An awkward silence immediately descended upon us. For a few seconds only the clock's ticking broke the monotony, but eventually I summed the courage to resume speaking. "I'm sorry, friend. I didn't mean..."

William raised his opened hand as if to stop me. "No need to apologize. A woman needs to know her place in the house after all." I felt a bitter sting at this, but I had no intention to show my disagreement.

The conversation soon picked up afterward, and Charlie became the central theme. I tried to share some anecdotes about her, hoping that William, a father of two, would relate and share some of his own. To my surprise, he only gave generic, dismissive responses after two or three of my tales. I then asked him a question, hoping for a simple yes or no:

"I'm spending more on diapers than food, is that normal?"

"Henry, I don't know." replied William with an air of annoyance, "You should talk to my wife about that."

It became clear to me that my friend is very much disconnected from his children's lives, leaving it all to his wife. The hostile indifference of her service, and her hurried footsteps from the kitchen to the bedroom, like a tired employee leaving for the day, suddenly magnified the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The space between the bedroom and our dining table might as well have been occupied by the Berlin Wall.

After pondering for a few seconds, I dared to ask: "And how do you help around the house?"

William's cool blue eyes suddenly flared hotly with indignation. "I bought the house, Henry. I am the breadwinner. My inheritance and savings provided everything you see. Don't let my wife's ungratefulness fool you."

I turned my gaze away from those angry eyes to the Girl with a Pearl Earring hanging in the living room, trying to ignore the uncomfortable conflict that William's response brought to me.

Probably sensing this, he resumed with surprising calm: "Let's talk about other things, shall we?"

I agreed eagerly.

"You said that Fredbear was almost done, right?"

"Yes, he is. All that remains is to give him the fur and accessories…"

"You will give him the top hat and bowtie I recommended." he interrupted

We both knew the answer; he merely wanted to hear it again.

"Of course, friend."

William positively glowed with pride as he said: "Is he ready enough for a test?"

"I'm not sure," I replied hurriedly, taken aback. "Shouldn't we wait a bit more?"

A belittling gesture of William's hand. "What's the point of waiting? Haven't you said so many times that it is ready?"

"I said it was almost ready-"

"So which one is it?"

Warm irritation bloomed from my chest to my face. I paused a second, letting it cool back down. "I want to make sure that it is safe, that's all."

An understanding nod from William. "That is fine and well. Just make sure it doesn't slow our progress. I hate the idea of losing momentum instead of gaining it."

"Of course."

"Good. How much time do will you need to do these… safety checks?"

I massaged a side of my head to speed up my calculations. "Between Charlie and everything, I might need two weeks."

"Two weeks for a safety check?!" blurted William with disbelief and annoyance, "I was thinking of giving you two days."

"What if something goes wrong? I'll need time to fix it."

He shook his head "Time is of the essence at this point if we want to open up before the end of the year."

I almost fell off my chair. "There's no way on Earth to do everything we have to do in five months! And you never told me that you wanted to open so soon!"

A casual shrug. "I just told you, didn't I? And please don't raise your voice." That last sentence was spoken with warning severity.

"Sure," I muttered.

"Then I'll see you in three days." resumed William, his voice proud and calm, "Just so you can have more time. Sounds good?"

I sighed. "I'll do what I can."

"There's a good man; I'm sure you will." Grinning, he stood up and straightened himself, appearing much taller than ever. "I have some Indian Pale Ale in the pantry to conclude this meeting. Care to share?"

I nodded and soon found myself sipping on that hoppy beer, that felt more bitter than usual, and wondering how I would juggle everything in the coming months. Nevertheless, I see now with this overextended entry, that Charlie will be staying with Jen and me for now; assuming I can convince the latter to stay with me for a few more days.

* * *

 _July 29th, 1976._

3 PM – I'm still recovering from this morning's events.

William arrived at my doorstep right before ten, and after a short greeting, we soon found ourselves in my workshop with Fredbear. We stared up at the familiar, bipedal figure for a few seconds after entering, then William started to walk around him slowly, inspecting him with sharp and critical eyes. At this stage, if Fredbear were human, he would be a skinned man. Although the main shape was there, including the round cheeks and smooth fingers cast in hardened foam, he was still devoid of his righteous covering of fur that will be the animatronic's skin, not to mention the top hat and bowtie recommended by William.

"What did you do again?" asked the latter without turning to see me, "Your Fredbear looks almost the same as last time."

"I tightened the locks some more," I replied, "and remember those levers that pushed everything aside to make room for the operator?" William nodded, still focused on Fredbear, "I rejoined them so they can make more room. But that puts even more tension on the locks, so I'm still not sure if they can hold on."

Another absent-minded nod from Will, then a few seconds of silence. "So, is it ready for a real test?"

"What do you mean?"

"Can we use the thing, and wear it like it is meant to? We need to move to the next step." I could see William's patience fall from his eyes like grains of sand in an hourglass.

I pinched the side of my head, considering this for a few seconds, then said "I believe so. When?"

"Now."

"Now?!"

"Well, yes." William shrugged, "That's why we're here, is it not?" He stared quizzically at me for a second or two. "You seem surprised."

"I don't know, friend. Why not try with a mannequin first?"

Unimpressed, he raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a mannequin on hand?"

"Well… no. But-"

"Then, unfortunately, it seems like we'll have to make do with what we have; that's you and me." Both in his voice and his eyes, I could tell that William's patience had run out.

"What if something goes wrong?" I protested meekly.

"But nothing will go wrong, because you did everything right, didn't you?"

A long sigh rolled from my lips as I stared at our creation with newfound apprehension. Finally, I said, "Which one of us should go?"

William huffed and crossed his arms. "You made it; you should test it."

I swallowed down my disagreement, then said after a few seconds "Let's try with nothing inside first"

"Sure," he replied coolly.

I went over to the crank on my workbench and inserted it into a slot on the back of Fredbear to open up the costume. With each wind, the panels of the back opened slowly, and the levers and gears groaned as they pushed the complex mechanisms to the side of the suit. After less than a minute, I had removed the crank and was staring at a hollowed-out metal body, with an opening in the back barely large enough for a man my size to squeeze through.

Of course, in this state, it was impossible to move the thing without an operator inside, but I felt a warm flicker of pride well up when I saw everything working just as I hoped. I stole a quick glance at William, expecting to see some sort of satisfaction in his face, but his stern and cold eyes were focused entirely on the mechanisms before him.

I then reversed the process by reinserting the crank and winding in the opposite direction. Slowly, the tensed arms relaxed as everything returned to its original position, creaking and groaning all the way until it seemed like nothing had been touched at all.

"Alright so far." stated William flatly, "Now for the real test."

I nodded silently before once again opening the suit with that hand crank. Taking off my shoes, I begrudgingly and carefully squeezed myself between metal plates, gears and springs. I slid one arm and leg into the suit's own, wincing and exposed bits of metal poked me through my tee shirt, then came the other, until I felt like I was truly wearing the suit.

"Are you done?" I heard William say with impatience, my vision limited to what could be seen the suit's eyeholes.

"The back needs to be closed," I whispered, still nervous of the slightest movements.

Hearing some muffled creaks and steps through the suit, I could tell that William had stood up to go towards me. "What now?" he asked dryly from behind, "Do I use the-"

"Do _not_ put the crank in there!" I said in panic, "That'll squeeze everything back into place with me. I just need you to close those panels in the back before I can move."

The last bit of air from the workshop was shut out as the panels were slid back into place. I heard a satisfying click; then I found myself completely capsuled by the suit. As I looked out through the smooth metal eyeholes, I turned my head to stare at William by my side, with the buzzing and whirring of mechanisms accompanying my slightest movement. He was clearly trying to hide his amazement. My sense of danger was quickly replaced by pride and bliss as I flexed my fingers, then my arms, and finally my knees. Everything was going smoothly.

In fact, I was so thrilled that I barely noticed how hot it was getting in the suit, even as a droplet of sweat slid down my forehead and into my eye.

Clearly in awe, William whispered "Spectacular. Can you walk?"

"My friend, I feel like I can do anything." I slowly lifted my right leg with some effort, then took a small step. Then came my left leg. Even though it was hard to keep my balance, after a few tries I found myself getting the hang of the suit more and more. As I did a small circuit around the garage, I was practically in heaven. My old dusty space seemed almost magical through the Fredbear's eyes.

I was about to yell "Success!", when a foreboding click to my left snapped me out of my high. I was stunned into silence until a harder snap to my right made clear what was going on. Partly from the heat and partly from excitement, I was drenched in sweat. In hindsight it was obvious: moisture can and will loosen those spring locks.

"Will, I need you to open the back of the suit," I said, trying to sound calm.

There was no answer.

"Come on friend, this is dangerous, help me out." Despite my best efforts, my rising panic crept into my voice. Sweat was now stinging my eyes constantly. I considered moving my head to search for my companion, but I was afraid to loosen the locks close to my neck.

This fear peaked when I hear a loud snap behind me, followed by a sharp pressure in my leg.

"William, get me out of here!" I screamed desperately, right before feeling a blast of air against my soaked back, followed by two hands that clamped on my shoulders, ripped me out of the suit and threw me roughly on the floor.

Stupefied, I raised my head to see William's hardened face. I could tell he was about to say something, but he was interrupted by the spring locks giving out. With a sound like a gunshot, Fredbear's torso gave a violent jerk, throwing the whole thing to the floor. More loud snaps and cracks followed as different mechanisms shot back into place, causing the suit to spasm on the floor like a man in agony. William and I stared at the bizarre and disheartening spectacle silently for about a minute, until at last the damaged suit remained still.

Not a minute later, a concerned Jen burst through the door. She had seen the animatronic suit before, and after an awkward introduction to William, a lengthy explanation, and saying repeatedly that no one had been hurt, her concern gradually turned to disdain, and she returned to the living room.

William and I agreed to spend more time on the suits. In the meantime, I still have to fix whatever damage Fredbear has suffered. I was lucky to have only a small bruise in my leg now, and I'm left wondering what would've happened if William hadn't pulled me from the suit when he did.

For now, I'm tired of writing and thinking on all this. I'll take a rest for now before talking with Jen.


	8. Notice

**Notice**

Hello everyone, I hope you're doing well. It's been a while since my last update, and that is because, after weeks of deliberation, I decided to cancel this story. I'm very sorry to everyone who was following and that (judging by the reviews) was actually enjoying this. I know the feeling of enjoying a story just to see it canceled very well, and I was sure that I would never be one to kill my own projects once started. You have the right to be irritated and disappointed. However, I want you to know why I made this choice before you judge me too hard.

It all boils down to this: I no longer enjoyed writing this story, I didn't feel much sympathy towards these characters, and there was no real plot. I think the latter is the reason for the former two. If you want a more detailed explanation, keep reading until the bold letters at the end.

When I finished _The Ones that were Lost_ , I felt very good and confident with myself, so I decided to take on more challenging projects. I had heard that writing a story through diaries and other documents (an 'epistolary' narrative, if you want to sound fancy and snobbish) was very hard to do. But I thought to myself: "If I managed to finish a fic that's almost 200 thousand words long over 2 and a half years, that's mostly first person, with a bunch of characters and three arcs, while still getting a good number of positive reviews, I can do it!" So, soon after Pizzeria Simulator and inspired by Bram Stoker's _Dracula_ , I started _Henry's Journals_.

Turns out that my planning strategy for everything that I had written so far didn't work very well for this kind of format. I had a vague idea for a plot, spanning everything from Fredbear's to the events of FNaF 6, but I didn't put enough thought into it. Connectivity, something that's already hard for me, seemed impossible. How could I describe what I wanted, while still making it seem like something that a normal guy would write in his journal? It just didn't seem possible to make everything flow naturally. Stoker could, but I'm nowhere near that level. I feel bad even comparing myself to him. I'm still a beginner who overestimated himself.

So, I decided that I'd simply go from Fredbear's to the Missing Children's Incident since I'd already written _Lost_ which begins with the MCI. Not because I wanted to connect both stories, but because I didn't want to write the same events twice. I thought that I'd simply go from chapter to chapter and that eventually a plot would arise. It didn't. All I really wrote in 7 chapters were separate events that don't really serve a general, continuous narrative. Writing a story without a plot is like designing a car with no wheels. You can have cool passengers for the ride (characters), a very nice car (the main idea), and beautiful scenery during the trip (the setting), but with no wheels, you're not getting anywhere, no matter how hard you push.

And I pushed hard. I really put a lot into effort into trying to make a chapter interesting, even if it mostly ended up being about the mundane and boring problems of a young entrepreneur. I wanted to make this story more 'adult' by leaving out fantastical/bizarre elements, even though this is a franchise about floating puppets giving life to super advanced robot animals in the 80s through the souls of kids murdered by a goddamn British furry. Turns out, I still need some level of fantastical/bizarre for a plot to be interesting. I wanted to focus exclusively on human characters. Turns out, purely human characters bore me after some time when it comes to writing; reading's fine though. I wanted to describe a general plot through journal entries. Turns out, I'm nowhere near good enough for that, and I didn't have a good idea for a general plot in the first place.

So, the story became very difficult to write and I didn't get much enjoyment from it, because I didn't really feel like I was going anywhere. I didn't hate writing individual passages; I'm actually kind of proud about Lorena's death and satisfied with my descriptions in general. Nonetheless, I never cared much for these characters, because I didn't get to put them in really interesting situations, and I never would, because I decided to focus exclusively on everything before the MCI, which is where the interesting stuff actually starts!

I wanted to highlight the fact that I never felt much empathy for these characters. This is very strange for me. I cried a lot multiple times while writing Lost because I felt with the characters. It pained me to see them suffer and it made me happy when they had little happy moments. Even with Broken, which was much shorter, I still felt sympathy towards Christopher. I didn't feel much of anything when I killed Lorena. I think that if you're telling a story, and you don't feel attached to your characters, you're not really enjoying it. And if you're not enjoying it, and you're not getting paid, then why are you writing it in the first place?

My apologies for this oversized, chapter-long rant. I haven't really written in a while and I wanted to get this off my chest.

 **So, what's next?**

I will take a break from fanfiction until I finish a few shortish original tales that I really want to write. Then I will write a longer fic based on Richard Adam's _Watership Down_. Odds are very few people will read it. I don't care; I just want to write something for myself and not publish it until it's done. Then I will start thinking about writing a short novel.

I don't think I will go back to FNaF stories in the near future. I still love those games to death, I still follow the news and visit the forums occasionally, I'm just not as obsessed as I was a few years ago. I actually started a few FNaF one-shots but I couldn't bring myself to finish them. To be honest, 4 years is more than enough time. I want to refresh myself by writing different things before going back and finishing those one-shots.

Through it all, this story actually taught me a lot about what kind of writer I am and what skill-level I'm on (still a noob). Once again, I'm sorry and I thank you for your support with this fic while it lasted. However, it was fundamentally flawed since the start, and the time I spent on it could've been much better spent on other projects. Like Scott Cawthon himself said about FNaF World on Reddit: "There comes a point where you have to stop pouring sugar on a turd and start baking a cake."

Happy reading and happy writing,

-Harmonics


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